


Life in the old things yet.

by BarPurple



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: Fossils are just rocky remains of a bygone time, usually.





	Life in the old things yet.

Gryphaea, or Devil’s Toenails in the vernacular, he’d found out what they were called easily enough. Bloody wrong was what they were, fossilized invaders that rode in on the tide weeks after a heavy storm further up the coast that had no place on the shores of the Wash. They irritated Walter although he seemed to be the only one. Most of the folks in town thought they were interesting, if they thought of them at all. The curled rocks had even made the local news, the cheerful and finally section after all the grim despair of the main news; the reporter grinning that the North East’s loss was their gain, as if they’d managed to snag a decent footballer during the transfer window rather than come dubious heir to a load of ancient rocks.

Walter had been born on this shore, he’d worked the sea from boyhood and he’d never seen anything that unsettled him as much as these infernal Toenails. He couldn’t explain it, but they set his teeth on edge, which was impressive since he wore dentures these days, his own teeth having long since gone to the dentist’s pliers. 

The sight of the fossils spoiled his daily strolls along the beach, so he started picking them up, cleaning up the sands he privately considered his. He only took a few at first, a man could only carry so much in a plastic bag after all, but even as he headed home his thoughts were turning toward his wheelbarrow. What to do with them once he’d taken them from the beach was the question, throwing them in the bin wasn’t going to work. He’d had a strongly worded letter from the council about not separating recyclables, and rocks weren’t covered on the helpful leaflet they had sent him. The tip took building rubble, but it was too far away for Walter to lug the rocks to. He paused puffing a bit as he leaned against his garden walk. His lungs had seen better days, so had this wall of his, he’d have to do a spot of repair work soon. Without really thinking about it he pulled one of the Toenails from the bag and tried it for size in one of the cracks in the wall. It fit pretty well, bit of mortar and it would hold firm. The fossils were rock after all weren’t they? They’d do the job nicely and not cost him anything more than a bit of sweat in the collecting. They didn’t look as out of place in the wall as they had on the beach. Aye, this would work nicely.

Over the next few days it became a common sight to see Walter pushing his barrow along the beach, stopping every few feet to stoop and gather up the Devil’s Toenails. Nobody paid him any mind; the fossils were so abundant as to be worthless. What did it matter if and old man had taken a fancy to them?

It took a fortnight and lord alone knows how many Toenails, but the garden wall was repaired and Walter felt pleased with a job well done. The fossils took on a queer slick gleam after rain, but they dried out soon enough and returned to a dull slate colour. There were only a few fossils left on the beach now, few enough that he could enjoy his strolls without the sight of them unsettling him, so Walter returned his barrow to the shed and got back to his usual routine.

In the wake of the next storm to hit the North East coast there was no smiling reporters making jokes. Walter watched the television in the pub in an atmosphere of sombre horror. The unseasonable and unprecedented storm had battered the coast with such force that it had taken a huge chunk of cliff into the sea, and most of the caravan park that had sat atop it. Walter finished his pint and left the pub as the news droned on about the ways the government planned to assist the families of the victims, and the plans they were going to put in place to prevent this sort of thing happening again, as if the gasbagging of politicians could do a damn thing against nature. 

The sea along the Wash looked no different than usual, but a sense of creeping dread niggled at him. What would the tide sweep on to the beach this time? He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice that the Toenails in his garden wall had begun to crack.

The tail end of the storm hit the Wash that night, a strange howling wind that blustered around, whipping the rain about and making the waves froth and foam. Walter couldn’t settle, storms had never bothered him, but this one was making him feel out of sorts. The cracking chittering sounds from outside drove him to don his coat and boots. He paused by the front door and picked up the torch he kept there for the man who came to read the gas meter. The beam lit the garden path, but Walter’s eyes were on the sea. He was at the wall by the time he’d worked out what was wrong; there was a huge bulge where there should only be waved ripple water. His shaking hand gripped the top of the wall as his mind raced with possibilities of rouge waves and tsunamis, the bulge wasn’t moving. His hand connected with something squishy and slimy. He pulled back, wiping his hand on his coat; sure he’d just squashed a slug and flicked the torch beam onto the wall. Whatever it was it was no slug, and the wall looked to be covered in them. He blinked rain from his eyes and stared. His garden wall was covered in waving tentacles sprouting from every place he’d cemented one of those damn Toenails into the wall. Walter didn’t bother doubting his eyesight, although he did spare a passing thought as to what Clegg at the pub was serving as ale. With a weird chittering sound one of the things wiggled free of its stone casing and plopped to the ground. Disproportionally large wet eyes stared at him for a moment before the squidy-octopus thing turned about face in a tangle of rubbery limbs and began floundering its way to the beach. A dozen more splats alerted Walter to the fact that his whole wall was hatching. His dentures almost slipped from his slack jaw as he watched the wriggling creatures squirm their way across the pavement and road heading towards the beach. He snapped his mouth closed and stared up at the sea. The unnatural bulge in the water had drawn closer and was waving tentacles, beckoning the little ones. Walter was glad the rain and dark prevented him from making out any details of the big one; watching the little ones squirm their way under the street light was repulsive enough.

Walter didn’t move until the last little one had made it to the sea. A shiver that had nothing to do with the rain soaking his coat ran through him as the big one shifted, and sank beneath the waves. After a long moment the rain eased and the wind dropped, the storm was blowing itself out, or the weather was returning to normal now the thing had collected its young. Stiff with the cold he hadn’t felt until now Walter turned and headed back inside the house.

The next morning he picked a builder from the phone book and had them come and tear down the garden wall. They put a nice sturdy metal fence in its place, and took all the rubble to the tip on the back of their lorry, including half a dozen Devil’s Toenails that hadn’t hatched. Yet.


End file.
